Without You
by Mizuni-no-neko
Summary: A series of unrelated one-shots focusing on different pairings involving either Gregory or Christophe but never both. I take requests. Greg/Mysterion, Greg/Stan, and Chris/Red Goth up. Greg/Kenny coming soon. M just in case
1. Greg and Mysterion should make out more

This is part of my campaign to get Gregory to have more options than just Christophe. Really, I mean there are only _two_ fics where he's with anyone besides Mole. So this is the first installment. Because Gregory and Mysterion should make out more often lol

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Gregory didn't really feel uneasy walking down the streets at night. It was South Park, for god's sake, not some big city with a huge crime rate. And he could take care of himself, despite his appearance as a spoiled little pretty boy. He may be small and soft looking, but he was tough as nails. Years in the business had honed his fighting skill and killer instincts. He knew he could take any thugs that came his way.

But as he rounded a corner and encountered four such thugs, each armed with a knife the glinted maliciously in the moonlight, he realized how wrong he was. He tried to run, but they caught him and threw him against the wall. The only thought running through his head was that he really should have brought a weapon.

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Mysterion had finally returned after years of being in retirement. He had hung up his cape for what he thought was for good that fateful day in third grade when he had been forced by The Coon and Chaos to unmask himself. But any good hero knows that you can't stay away for long. The city needed him, whether his secret identity was really a secret or not. Because this wasn't about him, it was about the people of South Park.

And speaking of the people of South Park, he perked up as he heard a muffled shout coming from two alleys down. Making his way across the rooftops of the buildings he clambered down the fire escape and landed gracefully on his feet, the catlike reflexes having only been sharpened as he aged and grew into his body.

He had expected a lot of things, but Gregory Thorne cornered by a gang of thugs wasn't one of them. He knew the blonde boy could take care of himself, so why wasn't he? And then he saw the knives and understood. The fool had probably thought that he could go out without a weapon and be safe with just his fighting skills. But when you were a mercenary you should always plan to be cornered.

But still, he had to save him. Using the element of surprise he jumped the biggest one, disarming him and snapping his elbow. He took out the next one with an uppercut to the jaw, a blow to the nose and a fist to his temple. At least that one was down and out. Next he kneed another in the stomach and then used the guy's momentum as he fell to his knees to bring his head down even harder on his knee. The guy with the broken elbow tried to get him in a headlock with his good arm as the last one charged towards his, his knife aimed at his gut. But he threw broken arm guy over his head in time for his friend to drive the knife into his back. He threw the now dead or at least dying thug onto the last man and banged his head against the ground a few times for good measure.

He stood up and brushed himself off, looking at the man he'd just saved. He'd have to play this one safe. Gregory was probably one of the few people in South Park that didn't know his secret identity and he didn't really want to blow that.

"So you're the secretive Mysterion, former superhero of South Park?" Gregory smirked as he pushed himself off the wall, looking as cool as if he'd never been cornered by thugs.

Mysterion kept his eyes on Gregory, still in his fighting stance and turning as the blonde circled him.

"I've heard a lot about you, but there seems to be one thing I can't figure out. The whole town seems to have mysteriously forgotten who you really are and even torture can't bring it out of them. Either their more loyal than I thought or they're too stupid to remember. Knowing this town, I'd say it's the latter. But maybe it wasn't an accident." He said, his eyes narrowed.

Torture? He tortured people to try and gain his secret identity? But why would he…Then something hit him.

"You didn't fight back, you didn't even try. Those guys weren't attacking you at all, were they!" He demanded, facing him and growling, hand balling into a fist.

"I thought you'd never catch on, dear Mysterion. Those men were in my employ, hired to do just what they did and lure you here. I'm glad to say it worked out so well." He said with a smirk, leaning back on a crate and watching him with cold blue eyes.

"But why?" I asked, confused. Gregory had never shown any desire for world domination or even anything more illustrious than the occasional resistance movement in some third world country.

Gregory's smirk widened as he stepped closer to Mysterion. He looked straight into his eyes with his own ice blue and pressed his lips to the superhero's. Without thinking about it Mysterion kissed back, gripping Gregory's arms and pressing them closer.

Gregory nipped Mysterion's lip as he pulled back from the kiss, shoving him away. "I'll see you around, Mysterion." He said, the sounds of a chopper coming from overhead as he jumped onto a rope ladder that hauled him away as the helicopter flew off. Mysterion tried to catch the end of the ladder, but it slipped right through his grasp.

He cursed and glared after the blonde as he gave him a jaunty salute and turned to scale the ladder. He was pretty sure he had a new archenemy, but maybe this could turn out to be fun. He'd never done _that_ with Chaos.

"See you around, Gregory."

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I have no new ideas lol Request a pairing. Remember, it has to be a pairing with either Gregory or Chris, but not both of them together.


	2. Smile, I love you GregStan

Ok, so I've been trying to get my creepy mojo back for awhile and I finally found it…I think. This is the second installment of the Gregory chronicles. I didn't notice I'd made Gregory the bad guy in both until I finished this one xD

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"Gregory you don't have to do this. Just put the gun down!" Stan begged, trying to inch out of Gregory's line of fire. But the blonde wasn't having it, the barrel of the gun simply followed the Raven as he tried to escape. But there was no escape.

"I have to, Stan! I have to…I have to." He last was a broken whisper, tears streaming down his face as he squeezed the trigger, a loud bang ringing throughout the apartment.

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Gregory hummed a happy tune as he strolled through the supermarket with his basket. He waved to the people he knew and smiled at those he didn't. He was just in a very pleasant mood today. It was his and Stan's anniversary and he was going to make sure it was perfect.

He slid a few candles into the cart and one of those stick lighters to light them. He glanced at the lighter fluid and glanced back. Barbrady came up and started a conversation and by the time he'd managed to shake the policeman he was almost late. So he rushed to grab the rest of what he'd need and scurried to the checkout, paying for his items and tanking the cashier before hurrying home.

This was going to be perfect. It would be just him and Stan and candles spending a romantic evening on their anniversary. He hummed lightly as he mounted the stairs towards their apartment, bag in his arms and key in his other hand. He let himself in and smiled when he saw Stan, setting the bags down.

"Oh, hello love. I bet you weren't expecting me home so early." He said with a giggle, patting Stan's cheek over the gag as he struggled.

"Now, now, don't be so antsy! You know I can only untie you when we have company!" He scolded, kissing the top of his head. "Besides, it's our anniversary! I can't have you running off to the police and spoil our nice evening." He gave a sweet smile and pressed his lips to the gag where he could barely see the indent of the Raven's lips.

"Oh I wish I could kiss you, but you'd just bite me again. You seem to be kinky like that." He rolled his eyes in an affectionate way and kissed his lover's nose.

Stan growled and looked over in the corner, trying to inch over there while his back was turned so he could unpack the groceries. But Gregory just turned around with a dark scowl on his face.

"What are you doing with that skank on our anniversary?" He asked, his voice dangerously calm. "This is our special night, Stan. I won't let you and that thing ruin it! Besides, she's already dead!" He snapped, his grip on the stick lighter painfully tight.

Stan nodded his head, trying to give him a reassuring smile through his gag, though the fear in his eyes was apparent.

He had no idea how he'd gotten into this mess. He barely even knew Gregory except for the few times they'd been thrown together on adventures. He was a mercenary and often of good use. He'd never really got the creepy vibe from him, but people in that business hid insanity well. They all had to be nuts just to take the jobs, let alone keep doing it once they got back. He'd thought him a rather calm man, but obviously he was wrong.

He'd shown up on his doorstep one night trying to seduce him, telling him it was their first date. He'd assumed he'd been drunk at the time but now he knew better. He'd fought him off and told him to go home, but he'd pulled a gun on him. He'd tried to warn Wendy, his girlfriend, and tell her to call the police, but she hadn't been able to get away in time and Gregory had shot her.

Stan was so shell shocked that he went along with everything Gregory told him to do, trying to process what was going on. Before he knew it he was tied up and gagged with Wendy rotting in the corner and Gregory moving in like they really were lovers.

And now it was apparently their anniversary. He wouldn't know, he didn't even know how long it'd been since he'd been out of the apartment. But he'd learned to play along with whatever Gregory said. So if he thought it was their anniversary, he'd go along with it. It's not like Gregory would make him play pretend with him. He usually just sat there and chatted to him about his day, leaving him tied up.

But he was wrong, tonight it was different. As Gregory went about the preparations he smiled to himself. Tonight was the night he'd decided he was going to give himself to his beloved Stan. So he lit candles and placed them around the room, glancing at the lighter fluid.

When had he bought that?

But it didn't matter. He lit the candles and lifted Stan to his feet, taking the gag off. He traced his lover's lips with his finger and then slowly ran his tongue over the finger in a seductive way.

Stan wasn't sure what he was doing, but if he stayed still maybe he could take him by surprise and get out of here. When he felt cold lips pressed to his he didn't kiss back, but he didn't squirm or bite or try to get away like he usually did. He thought of all the kisses he and Wendy had shared and tears started rolling down his cheeks.

"Oh don't cry, darling." Gregory cooed, cupping Stan's cheek with a cold hand. Was everything about him cold? "I know how to make you feel all better." He purred. He started taking off his clothing and Stan's eyes widened. What the hell was this crazy bastard doing! When he was fully naked Gregory came over to him and started to undo the ropes. He stood perfectly still and waited for his chance, pushing Gregory to the side and bolting to the door.

But Gregory was too quick. He grabbed the lighter fluid and sprayed it at the candles near the doorway, the fire blasting up and catching the gauzy curtains Wendy had put up to block the main entry from the part of the apartment they used as a living room.

Stan was trapped now between a wall of fire and a crazy man with lighter fluid and who knew what other kinds of weapons. He turned back to face Gregory and whimpered as he saw a gun in his hands, heart sinking.

"Gregory, put the gun down. I'm here, we're having fun." He said, trying to placate him.

"Fun? Fun! You ruined our anniversary, Stanley Marsh! Look at what you've done! I can't let you get away with it this time. I've taken so much shit from you and no more! I'm afraid I have to break up with you, Stan." He said icily, cocking the gun and pointing it at him, finger poised over the trigger.

"B-break up?" He stammered, pretending to be broken up about it. But he just sounded terrified. And he was, considering that breaking up sounded more like being killed. "No, you can't! I love you." He forced the lie out. His life depended on it, after all.

"I'm sorry, Stan. I have to. You're poison to me. I can't stay with you." He said, tears springing to his eyes. He was broken-hearted to end the best thing that'd happened to him in a long time, but determined to do what was best for him.

"Gregory you don't have to do this. Just put the gun down!" Stan begged, trying to inch out of Gregory's line of fire. But the blonde wasn't having it, the barrel of the gun simply followed the Raven as he tried to escape. But there was no escape.

"I have to, Stan! I have to…I have to." He last was a broken whisper, tears streaming down his face as he squeezed the trigger, a loud bang ringing throughout the apartment.

Gregory looked down at the still warm corpse of his ex boyfriend, smiling because he was finally free. He didn't have to deal with Stan or his bullshit anymore.

He lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling of the apartment they used to share. He closed his eyes and let the warmth of the flames licking at his fingertips crawl up his arms, warming him all over.

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When the police found the bodies the next morning after the fire was stamped out and the building deemed safe to enter they identified them as Stan Marsh and Wendy Testaburger, a young couple who'd recently moved into the building.

The third body was too burnt to identify, but there was enough left that you could see the ghost of a smile on the charred face.

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I was going to do this Chris/Greg with Bebe as the girlfriend, but this seemed more plausible. Besides, Greg never gets paired with anyone but Christophe :(


	3. Why Cry? Red GothChris

This one was interesting and I have no idea where I pulled this pairing from. But it was fun to write. I wish I could paint but I have the artistic skills of a sea anemone (which I have trouble saying, btw) If you don't believe me check me out on DevArt I'm greenfreakhippy

We can laugh at how much I suck together! I'm srsly, though. I think it's funny. People try and sugar coat it and tell me I'm not that bad, but I just want some honesty every once in awhile!

Trust me, constructive crit is always more appreciated than random meanless fangirling. That goes double for my stories!

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Thorn screamed and tossed another can of black paint at the wall, panting as he watched the black liquid drip down like blood in some old horror movie. But it wasn't blood, it was just paint. He hadn't bled for that bastard, he hadn't even cried.

Where did that bastard get off leaving him! Who the hell did Christophe think he was, anyways? He was just some nobody. Worse, a French nobody! Nobody fucking liked French people, not even other French people.

He had done everything for that bastard. He'd cooked, cleaned, made sure he had whatever he needed. In the end the bastard had left without a word.

He could still remember the last time he'd seen him.

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Christophe had shown up out of the blue on his doorstep, bloody and bruised. It wasn't unusual. In fact, it happened more times than not when they saw each other.

He'd shoved Thorn against the wall and started kissing him with a passion that hit the smaller boy like a brick wall. The artist gasped and kissed back, moaning. They made their way to the sofa, lips never leaving the other's for long.

They finally made it to the couch after knocking over several empty easels and paint buckets. Luckily there was no real damage or Thorn would be even angrier at the asshole. It had been quick and rough and nothing seemed that out of the ordinary. He figured Christophe had had a bad mission or something. It was usually like this when he wanted to forget.

He had been mentally preparing his checklist of what he'd need to do and to get to help Christophe through whatever nightmares he would be having that night when he heard Christophe's voice. He asked him to repeat what he'd said, a smile on his face.

"I won't be back." He said gruffly, getting up and redressing. "Ever."

Thorn had sat there and looked at him, completely shell shocked. His mind was racing and at the same time empty of all real thought.

By the time he'd snapped out of his trance and formulated his response it was already dark, Christophe was gone, and his side of the bed was cold.

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Thorn screamed, letting his rage out. He picked up the nearest paintbrush and flung paint at the canvas, the red splattering across the black-splattered canvas. He kept going, not knowing what he was doing or what he was painting.

He just focused on the feeling, held it tight and didn't let go. It was his driving force. He would pour every ounce of hate and anger into this painting and maybe, just maybe, there wouldn't be any left for him to feel.

He was sick and tired of the pain, the used feeling. He felt like a fucking whore for letting that bastard use him for sex whenever he was in town. And maybe he was a whore. He hadn't exactly begged for roses and real dates. They'd gone out on the town maybe once, and that was to some sleazy bar where they fucked in the bathroom.

But it didn't matter anymore. Because once he was done with this painting he could get rid of it and all the feelings he'd put into it. He'd sell it to some idiot collector or donate it to some club. He didn't care, as long as the painting was gone. As long as he couldn't feel those things anymore. As long as he didn't remember how good it used to be and how fucked up it was now.

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Christophe had shown up about a year ago and shoved him into the doorframe, kissing him hard. He hadn't seen the man since high school and to this day he had no clue how he'd found him, but he had.

Clothing had been shed and somehow they'd made it to the bed, winding their way through the maze of canvases, painting supplies, and take out containers on the floor. He could taste alcohol on the Frenchman's breath, or maybe that was his own.

Primal moans and grunts of pleasure and pain had filled the apartment, their coupling neither loving nor soft. It was like two bolts of lightening meeting in the same place: electric and explosive. And when it was done they were both left dazed and confused as to what they'd just done and why they were here.

Christophe had gotten up and left without a word. He'd never expected to see him again, but he did. Every once in awhile he'd show up out of thin air to have mind-blowing sex and just leave. But Thorn was ok with that, he was using Christophe just the same as he was being used.

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There wasn't much he could remember about that night. He'd been a bit drunk and maybe even high, he was a starving artist, after all. But he could feel the heat radiating from him just thinking about it. He could feel trails of fire where Christophe had touched him.

He screamed again in frustration, pouring that passion into the painting. He swung the brush in violent strokes across the canvas, blind to anything but the paint and the memories. The sound of the traffic on the street below and the light from the street lamp streaming through his window faded away, because all that mattered was his painting.

He wanted to get the feel of the man off him. He didn't want to remember his face, he didn't want to feel the ghost of his touch, he didn't want to think about him at all. But nothing he'd tried had worked. He'd drowned himself in booze and smoked, snorted, and shot up to the moon, but he couldn't get him out of his head and he couldn't get these feelings to Just. Fucking. Stop.

He grabbed the nearest bottle and threw it at the wall, smashing it to tiny pieces. He didn't give two shits that it was still half full and that the liquid was streaking down the wall. He didn't fucking care that there was glass all over the floor now. All he cared about was getting the scent of that asshole out of his apartment. He still caught whiffs of it every now and then. Cigarettes, bare earth, and something else he couldn't place. It was torture.

He bent down and picked up a shard of the bottle, gripping it tight in his hand. It was all that was real right now. Blood dripped down from his palm and splattered on the floor, but he paid it no more heed that to smear some of it on the canvas for color and dramatic effect.

He worked through the tears blurring his eyes and the pain stinging his palm, not willing to stop until he'd finished and he could be done with him forever. He didn't wipe the tears away, they were a part of this too. They would go with the painting and never come back.

When he finally stepped back from the painting he'd literally poured his blood, sweat, and tears into he smiled. It was a half-demented quirking of the lips at best, something to frighten children.

He admired his work, liking what he'd done. The canvas was mostly black, the paint having been poured down it, and taking up the middle was a giant, grotesque human heart resting in a tanned, calloused hand. Down the middle of the painting was what looked like a giant tear, like someone had slashed it with a knife. Upon closer inspection, it was just paint.

He'd given his heart to Christophe only to have it torn in two, just like the painting. It was fitting, really. He turned his back to the painting so it could dry, exploring the emptiness in his chest where the anger and hate had been before.

He'd gotten rid of the bad, gotten rid of Christophe. Now he was free to do whatever he pleased. But he was another day older and another day wiser. He wouldn't give his heart out to just anyone. No, it was his now and he was going to keep it.

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Thorn woke up the next morning and the first thing he noticed was that there was a breeze blowing through his bedroom. He jumped out of bed and looked at the window, eyes narrowing. He hadn't left it open last night.

Suspecting a theft he checked all of his hiding places for valuables. Finding nothing missing in the bedroom he opened he door and stepped out into the living room area. He looked around, his eyes finally resting on the easel in the middle of the room.

He gasped, the painting was gone! He rushed to the easel, heart beating in his throat. But all that was there was a hastily scrawled sticky note in Christophe's handwriting.

"I noticed you painted me something. Hope you didn't mind that I took it."

Thorn let out a hollow, mirthless laugh. Go figure, he painted an attempt at getting his heart back and Christophe stole it.

…Again.

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Aww Christophe stole his heart figuratively twice!


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